


In a subjunctive mood

by thett



Category: The Gentlemen (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Barebacking, Dirty Talk, Everything is Complicated, First Time, I'm almost sure, M/M, Or not, PWP, as if these two ever had it simple, like have you seen the movie??, probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:02:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23108161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thett/pseuds/thett
Summary: Fletcher's daydreams have as many layers as film stock
Relationships: Raymond Smith/Fletcher
Comments: 7
Kudos: 97





	In a subjunctive mood

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to Leidari Dey for proofreading! and also going to see the movie to, you know, proofread.

“Can I come with you.”   
And what if - if you were strong enough, if he was soft enough, if the night was dark enough - he wouldn’t answer immediately, he would shut his pretty fucking mouth and delay an answer for a second, in which you could imagine a whole new world and let it live, for a moment.  
If he turned his back to you, his huge strained back and wrought-up shoulders, with a holster under his armpit and a glass of scotch in his hand.   
If he turned his back to you and headed for the bedroom and you followed him, hoping for the best, struggling not to hope for anything.  
If you followed, coming after him through unlit hallways, coming down gently, trying not to tread on your dreams but walking on burning coals instead, fixing your crotch, swallowing hard, thinking of what is to come next.  
Next he would fall on his bed face first, a nice soccer field-sized bed with a headboard of solid hand-carved wood, is it Chippendale or what, and you would touch solid wood in your slacks and feel helpless, godless.  
Twenty millions pounds and one poorly tempered accountant, laying on his bed fully clothed, with his holster and his shoes on.  
You would clear your throat. “I’m going to take a bath,” you’d say, playfully, “with bubbles. To get myself pretty for.” He’d let out an exhausted groan, like he’d prefer to be spared the details but his tongue is too heavy to demand it.  
He would be sleeping at the moment you’d come out of the bathroom.  
He would still be clothed in his middle-class gangster armour: the mustard cardigan, these dark well-fitting jeans, his modest boots, not suitable for a long walk. His glasses stay on. There’s not a single blade hiding in the toes of these boots. He’s not the kind of a man who’s trying to stab you with his toe, silently, discreetly. He’s going open and wide up on the front: his eyes bright, his machine gun poking at the sky, his knuckles white on the handle. It feels like a punch in the gut, or a slap, or your hand laying on his knee for the first time. Him, shining with rage, poor baby, he barely had clawed his way up this hole, up South London council estate, and. And. Here we go again.  
“Come on,” you’d say, “Raymundo, show me the stars.”   
He’d shuffle under the covers and say, “Just let me sleep, you boring fuck.”  
“I’ll let you sleep if you fuck me after,” the bargain is your favorite method of negotiation.   
“Fuck you yourself”, he’d mutter.  
That will do.  
You’d take off his boots, first. You’d check them for hidden blades, in character or not; it’s the laws of genre, nothing personal. You’d take off his glasses, next. You’d fold them neatly and place them on the nightstand alongside yours. Then, you’d remove his holster and throw it away - caution is never superfluous, in this case, and, and, and.  
Coming out of the dreams, you’d get under the covers with him; you’d nestle against his wide woolen chest, fold your hands at your shoulders and let yourself fantasize filthy about what would happen next if he wasn’t so exhausted, so tired.  
It would happen next morning. So early, you would open your eyes at this hour for no less than twenty million pounds. You’d get these pounds no matter what, one way or another.  
One way or another. I’m gonna win you, I’ll get you.   
You’d get him. He’d be soft and breathing sick night air under you ear; his beard prickly, his prick hard under your soft buttock. He’d wake up as sharp as 9 calibre head-shot, he’d search the table for a glass of water, find the tumbler of scotch leftovers but drain it anyway. He’d say, “Are you going or what?’  
You’d hear “Are you going at it” instead of “Are you going out of my house and also out of my life”, and this would be the right decision.  
You’d turn your head and meet his scotch breath. He’d say, “I don’t kiss,” and you’d say, “Me too.”  
You’d kiss him.  
He’d open his mouth.  
You’d be getting beard burns if you haven’t had a beard, too; it comes handy that you decided not to shave clean in favor of a goatee a long, long time ago.  
His tongue would be lazy and drunk and exquisite. Slow in an interesting kind of way, more like he’s not used to it than like he lacks the skill. He’d move against you, crawling up like an avalanche rewinded, crushing you under himself. You’d let him, of course. You’d let him to do worse, far worse things to you. You wouldn’t even mind a little torture.   
You’d say, “Wanna turn the lights on? It would be pity for you not to be able to see the wrinkles of ecstasy on my face.”  
He’d say, “I’m able to see your face clear enough to distinguish the exact kind of shit you are, Fletcher.”  
Well, you could see that coming.  
You’d feel a little like you’re coming too. Yes, already.  
“You’re picky about the kinds of shit,” you’d say.  
He’d answer by biting your mouth, not the sexy kind of bite, more like if-you-won’t-shut-up-I’ll-eat-your-tongue-for-breakfast kind of bite.  
You’d reply by getting him out of his hilarious mustard topping, then his crispy waistcoat, then his tighty-whitey-stripped whipped cream button-up, then his jeans, and oh. Ohhh, really.  
(It wouldn’t be a little bit like that.)  
You’d gravitate him between your legs, into the sacred gay space, where the saint Raymundo De Mierda could feel like home.   
(Could be, though, in another life.)  
Then he’d stop.  
Streetlight shining around his head, he’d say, “Are you clean.”  
(He wouldn’t ask such a thing.)  
You’d spread your legs wider and he’d exhale a breath under your clavicle, and you thought you weren’t in a shape to maintain such an erection without any addition of certain substances, dear God and twelve apostles of nasty skunk empire, you’d say, “Clean as a baby’s tear,” because it’s been ages since your last one night stand, and you’d have spend ages in the bathroom, and he’d say, “I doubt it.”  
You’ve rummaged through his medicine cabinet and found a pack of expired condoms, earlier.  
You’ve rummaged through his medicine cabinet and found a bottle of non-expired lube and applied it to yourself, earlier.  
(He’d be laying on the covers reading a paper, not looking at you, trusting you to do all the work, that’s how it’d be, realistically.)  
You’re not here for realistic business, are you.  
He’d push on you, spreading you out like he means it, like you like it, always on the bottom, always underneath. His trained body would be clumsy, his limbs chaotic and useless. You’d be bare under his touch, a molten breathless mess, a ruined property eaten by rust and by lust, you’d say, “I am.”  
You’d say it for a hundred times.  
He’d ignore it for the hundredth time, like he always does, but he couldn’t ignore you when you’d take his dick in your hand and push it into you, inch by fucking inch, slowly, uncertainly, time after time. He’d shudder in one big move, and you’d grit your teeth and look away, having enough of his gas burner gaze. He won’t stop looking. He knows what it is with you and dark moody glances, he knows it gets you talking and he likes you talking, and you like him swearing.  
And you’d say, “How do you even have shoulders like that, with all these numbers and paperwork.”  
And he’d say, “Shut up your dirty fucking mouth,” like he doesn’t like you to take his name in vain, but he does like you to take him in.  
And you’d say, “Not to mention your hips. Must be tricky to find a minute to crossfit between faxes and taxes.”  
He’d use his aforementioned hips and then you’d shut up your dirty fucking mouth, because this, fuck, you like it too.  
(He wouldn’t move his little finger to get you, indifferent and cool as a brand-new coffee machine, one of those upmarket models which cost like a decent house in near suburbs. You’d straddle his hips and place your hands onto his chest, and he would turn the page of his favorite newspaper and stifle a stage yawn.)   
He’d be so fucking perfect.  
Sleep-deprived for 48 hours or more, the ghost of SMG in his hand, his eyes all light and rage, he’d be so good for you, moving steadily and slowly, rubbing on your withering neck, telling you you’re dark and wrong in the bone, best dirty talk you’ve ever heard.  
His hips moving in mathematically verified circles, his fingers pinching at your sides like he pulls the trigger, he’s a dream accountant, the personal assistant of the year. You’re nibbling on your lips, his lips, failing not to moan, falling. You’re old, you’re so old; you’ve walked this road up and down, your skin is soft and your heart is weak and still he can make it dance. You’re dancing in waltz beats, counting one-two-three-moan on exhale, one-two-ooh-four on inhale, feeling a suspicious ache under your ribs on the left. Look who’s talking now - is it your liver, or have the pancreas woken up from a 1,500 pound a bottle blackout?  
Morning is coming inevitably.  
(You’d wring him out until his grip on the paper would be trembling and your legs would go numb.)  
Almighty mary jane fields are burning; you’re burning, too. This is going for long, far too long for your old poor weak heart. Precious film creases under his palms. 35mm Fuji Reala, old style, edges rough and breath is rough, too; morning newspaper gets wet on the porch. You’re promised pitiful 150 grand on the deliver, but it’s Ray here who’s going to deliver a real deal, and you’re here for real. He’s going for a twenty million. He’s going for a win.   
He isn’t in a hurry to touch you where it matters the most. It’s a little bit homophobic, but you don’t mind to work it out yourself, while he breathes hot into your shoulder and talking shit and moving his hips, blessed, the only thing having meaning to him now is to shove every word you’ve ever said back down your throat.   
He says, “You’re evil bitch, Fletcher.”  
And you say, “Yes.”  
He groans, “You’re filthy slut from the bottom of the pit.”   
And you answer, “Gladly.”  
He moans, “You’re the worst.”  
You nod and mouth his well-groomed beard, and he growls, he uncovers his machine gun, he raises his hands to the sky in a conquering prayer, so you’re left with no other choice but to take these hands and apply them to your thighs in a self-destructing attempt to indulge before.  
Before he looks up the roofs of South London council estate, poor little boy, lost his parents, and sees the sky.  
Before you look up at him and witness a thing far more beautiful than killer accountant in his best years.  
Before something new burns in you, in a circle of your dry calloused fingers and in the cradle of his greedy palms, tearing you apart more successful than a hand grenade, thrown neatly.  
He’d swallow hard, hiding his myopic sight behind the glasses.  
“Can I.”  
The pause stretches for something like forever.


End file.
